


A Fertile Garden

by Salvia_G



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Hobbit Culture, M/M, Missing Scene, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salvia_G/pseuds/Salvia_G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin loses his dignity, gaining something more valuable in the process.  Bilbo waxes lyrical about peaches, among other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Peach Orchard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I own nothing, not Tolkien's lovely _The Hobbit_ nor the Peter Jackson films inspired by the book; and I am grateful for the chance to play in Middle Earth's playground too.

Chapter One:  A Peach Orchard

Thorin lay back on the bench he had found in the Hobbit’s garden.  The company had finally settled for the night, allowing him to slip away to find this secluded courtyard.  He would not debase himself in front of witnesses.  Some things could not be done with dignity.  He undid his trousers without ceremony and reached in for his cock.  Aüle knew when next he might have the privacy needed to seek release. 

And simple release was all he sought.  He did not picture another’s skin; he did not linger.  Thorin had had nothing but his own hand for longer than he could remember, and practicality deemed that it would remain so.  A king’s dignity, even in exile, demanded it.  He could seek out no companionship among his small band of Dwarrows.  He was related to half of them anyway.  If there was some melancholy to his simple pulling action, he did not acknowledge it.

“What are you doing? Oh, no, no, no, no!”  Thorin yanked his hand away as the Hobbit’s voice intruded on his retreat.  That the grocer, of all who might have interrupted him, had found him thus...he knew his face flushed in shame and could only hope the night was dark enough that the Hobbit could not see.

This hope was dashed as the Hobbit entered the garden nook.  “What possessed you to do this here?” he asked, clearly puzzled.  Thorin did not know what to say and so said nothing.  The Hobbit’s next words stole any other words away for some time.  “When the garden will be alone for so long, would you not help to feed it instead of waste your seed on a grassy courtyard?”  And Mr. Baggins, Thorin remembered, was his name, Mr. Baggins took his hand—the hand that had held his cock moments ago—and pulled him up off the bench and down a path into the garden proper.

Thorin hardly knew his own thoughts as he followed Mr. Baggins through the garden.  The path they took wound over and around more hills than Thorin would have thought.  Clearly this garden was extensive beyond his brief first impression.  Wryly he realized that had he known the extent of Mr. Baggins’ holdings he might not have been caught as he had, for he would have retreated further from the Hobbit hole.

After a short while, Mr. Baggins drew him through a gate in a hedge and into a small orchard.  The grassy expanse below the trees was as private as he could wish.  What Mr. Baggins expected of him now, he did not know.  He lifted his eyes to the stars and remained silent.  For a moment, only the small sounds of the night surrounded them.  Then Mr. Baggins spoke. 

“I’ve always been terribly fond of peaches,” he said.  Thorin had tried to act as if he were merely alone, out for a night walk, but this statement shook him into looking at the Hobbit.  He was gazing at the blooming trees, a gentle smile on his face.  His eyes shone in the starlight.  Thorin pulled his hand from Mr. Baggins’, and pushed his embarrassment down enough to speak. 

“Peaches?”  To his further shame, his voice broke slightly on the word.  It seemed he would have no dignity at all in front of this small creature.

The Hobbit, however, seemed not to notice any discomfort.  His smile widened and he turned to look at Thorin.  “Have you ever had one?  There’s nothing so perfectly sweet and juicy as a ripe peach on a summer day.”

At least Thorin knew how to answer this, though again he found he had to clear his throat to speak.  “I have not had that pleasure, Mr. Baggins.  I do not believe I have even seen a peach.” 

“Oh, you will have to come back in the summer, when they ripen, then,” Mr. Baggins replied.  Thorin could not believe the ridiculousness of this conversation. When he considered how Mr. Baggins had found him in the garden... but there was no awkwardness in the Hobbit’s manner or address.  “They don’t travel well once they’ve ripened, I’m afraid; but you won’t regret the return trip.  The Shire is lovely in summer, and of course, you’ll have all the peaches you could want!”  For the first time, the Hobbit looked anxious.  “You will help with the peaches, won’t you?”

Thorin breathed deeply.  “I must apologize, Mr. Baggins, for acting as I did while your guest; and I will help however I can with your peaches; however, I do not understand what you want me to do.”

Mr. Baggins’ face showed surprise, and perhaps a bit of worry.  “Why, you must spill here, of course, on the ground by the peach trees!”  Once again he grasped Thorin’s hand and pulled him over to the nearest tree.  “This should do nicely.”  And with that, he sat back contentedly.  “It’s been years since I’ve had company in feeding a garden,” he said.

Thorin thought that he had only become more lost, every moment of this night, since the Hobbit first took his hand. 

“You...” He could not say it.  “You want me to...here.” He could not do it.  “While you watch?”  This was the most bizarre occurrence of his very long life.  “For your garden?”

 

Mr.  Baggins’ smile turned a bit wicked.  He did not look at all like a grocer anymore.  “Come now,” he coaxed.  “’Tis nothing you were not doing before.”  He paused, as if he were also gathering his courage.  “And no, I did not plan to watch.”  Thorin watched, disbelieving, as Mr. Baggins’ hands approached his trousers.  “I plan to help.”  And he—shakily, Thorin noted wildly, his hands were shaking—undid the already loose ties at Thorin’s crotch and took him into his mouth.  Thorin noted that his hands were shaking as well as they closed on blond curls.  Then he knew nothing else but his own moans.

When he finished, with some portion of his mind that had not been done in with pleasure, Thorin noted that Mr. Baggins carefully did not swallow his seed, but instead spat it at the base of the tree.  He allowed himself to collapse to the ground, then, closing his eyes and gasping for his breath.

“Is that what you meant—to feed the trees?  With my seed?” he managed.  “Mr. Baggins, truly, I am at your service whenever you have need of such again.”  He was boneless, careless, content—relaxed as he had seldom been since Erebor had fallen to Smaug.  What use was the dignity of a king of nothing?  He had never lost anything before to such happy result. 

The Hobbit leant over Thorin, brushing a bit of hair off his face.  “I am glad to hear it,” he said.  “For there are seven trees in my peach orchard.”  He smiled that wicked smile again, and Thorin’s breath caught.  “And perhaps you might call me Bilbo, Thorin Oakenshield.”

But instead of moving closer to Thorin, Mr. Baggins—Bilbo—moved away, to the next peach tree.  He kept his eyes on Thorin as he untied his robe.  Before, something had been underneath that robe, Thorin knew; but now he was nude, pale and more lithe than Thorin had thought under the starlight.  He did not make a show, but neither did he hide as he reclined under his separate tree.  His cock was already flushed and at attention.  One hand tugged on a nipple as the other gathered in his cock.

“Please,” he—begged, there was no other word, he begged—“please, call me Bilbo.”

Thorin could no more ignore such a plea...”Bilbo,” he growled.  “Bilbo, you have bewitched me, I think.”

“Aaah,” Bilbo gasped, his hand still moving.  “Oh, again, please, again!”  His shining eyes had closed now; his head turned from side to side as his hands continued to move.

“Bilbo,” Thorin purred.  Confidence returned in a great rush.  “Bilbo...Do you feel my eyes upon you?  Do you imagine that it is my hands that touch you, Bilbo?”  He paused, lowering his voice further.  “Do you, Bilbo?  For I still feel your mouth on me.”

And Bilbo, panting and moaning, came, rolling so that he spilled on the grass below the peach tree.

For a time, there was silence between them.  Thorin was content to watch as Bilbo recovered, as something warm began to curl deep inside him.  Bilbo turned and met Thorin’s eyes, blushing a bit, yet still unashamed.  Thorin had not seen such courage or openness in these matters before.  It was an attractive quality.  He allowed his own smile to grow wicked and wanton; his eyes to roam over the Hobbit.  “Bilbo...” he murmured low.  “What shall we do?  Five trees remain.”

Bilbo’s laugh was soft and sweet to his ears. 

Two peach trees later, they lay side by side underneath the sky. Though only their hands touched, Thorin felt every inch of his body strung in tune with Bilbo’s.  He had stepped out of his life and into some other’s.  He was not himself this night.  He could not remember such peace in his life before.  He had never gorged his desires so—Bilbo so generous, so open—this night was a rare jewel, the Shire an emerald around them...

Thorin sat up suddenly.

“Bilbo, does all the Shire couple in their gardens?  And how do Hobbits breed if they must always spill...”  He growled at Bilbo’s helpless laughter, rolling over onto the small Hobbit.  “Shall I show you what happens to those who laugh—“ and once again he was cut off, this time with a kiss.

“Dear Thorin,” Bilbo smiled against his lips.  “The Shire is naturally abundant, and Hobbits generally prefer their comfortable beds inside their cozy smials for most times.  But sometimes...” he laughed.  “Come, settle here with me, and I will tell you about Gaffer Gamgee’s prize-winning tomatoes.”

And so Thorin found himself managed into place, his head in Bilbo’s lap, Bilbo’s hands stroking through his hair. 

“It’s usually youths, you understand; a grown Hobbit leaves behind the wildness of his tweens as he ages.”  Bilbo sighed.  “But in the years that the body yearns but the heart has yet to find a home, well, then...young Hobbits might find a bit of friendly comfort.  And someone, sometime, noticed that their trysting spot grew ever more lush and green.”

“It’s an open secret that some of the farmers and gardeners of the Shire encourage ‘night visitors’ to their gardens.”  Bilbo paused, and sighed again.  “My neighbors, the Gamgees, were one such family; and Hamfast and I had been such good friends, growing up next to each other, running wild all over the Shire...well.  As such urges grew, we turned to each other.”  Bilbo laughed, but it had a sad echo to it.  “Hamfast’s father, the Gaffer, was ever so pleased with the state of his tomatoes that summer.  The Shire fair had never seen the like before.”  The pause this time was long enough that Thorin thought that perhaps Bilbo’s story was over, but he began again.  His voice held sorrow, but it was an old sorrow.  “Over the winter, Hamfast fell in with Daisy Nettle. When the warm season next came, we will still friends, but we fed no more tomatoes.”  Bilbo’s voice took on a more determined note, less sad, if not happier.  “And now Daisy Nettle is Daisy Gamgee, as is the usual way in the Shire.  Most tweens meet a young lass and fall in love, and leave behind feeding the garden.”

“But you never met a young lass?” Thorin asked.  “Or...another young lad to ‘feed the garden’ with?”

Bilbo’s hands paused briefly.  “No, I... I never wanted another after Hamfast.  He was not just a... No.  I never did.”  They sat in silence for a time, Bilbo’s hands stroking Thorin’s hair.

“And the peaches?” Thorin asked.

“Pardon?” Bilbo seemed puzzled.

“Did you and Hamfast feed the peaches here as you fed his father’s tomatoes?”

“Oh,” Bilbo’s voice held comprehension.  “No, the Bagginses are not that sort of hobbit family, I’m afraid.”  Thorin heard a hint of laughter.  “It’s not exactly respectable, is it.”  Now, Bilbo did laugh.  “I planted this orchard after Hamfast and I were long done, Thorin, and only I—and now you—have ever spilled here before.”

“Good,”  Thorin growled.  He rolled out of Bilbo’s lap and tugged on his hand.  Gently, he settled Bilbo below the branches of one of the remaining peach trees.  He lowered his body onto the Hobbit’s.  “Though I leave in the morning, I intend these to be prize-winning peaches, Bilbo.”

Thorin watched the sun rise over the Shire.  Bilbo slept beside him, but Thorin had not slept; he had not wanted the night to end at all.  He would not look at Bilbo again; he was half in love with him already.  Finally he rose and made his way out of the garden.  He imagined it was the taste of peaches that lingered in his mouth.


	2. A Willow Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins, and Thorin comes to appreciate at least one small piece of Rivendell. Bilbo ensures that Thorin keeps his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is less a story and more a series of vignettes inserted within the existing canon--first movie, then book. If you have not read the book (and why on earth is that? Go read the book!), this is the last chapter where you are safe from spoilers.

Chapter Two:  A Willow Tree

Thorin knew not what to say to Bilbo as the company camped that first night.  Though Bilbo had spoken of leaving his garden for a time, Thorin could not imagine the gentle Hobbit among this boisterous company, upon this perilous journey.  He wished it; he did not wish it; he did not know what he wished.  Before the night he had spent in Bilbo’s garden, he had desired only golden Erebor.  His desires now were beyond his ken.

Certainly Bilbo seemed ill-prepared for the days ahead.  He had stopped their caravan for a pocket handkerchief.  His dress (while handsome, suggested his treacherous mind) was impractical.  He bore no weapon, not even a pocketknife or a flint; and, Thorin was certain, he had burgled nothing and no one before.  Thorin would not think on the day that Bilbo might face Smaug.

But though Thorin was quiet and drew his dignity around him from wherever it had shrunk away, he was glad of the burglar’s presence amongst the company.  He was ridiculous, but in Thorin’s mind he was also a smooth body and a mischievous smile, so giving he had quenched places Thorin had not known his soul thirsted.  It had been more than his touch-starved body that had been abundantly filled that night.  It had been more than physical completion.

So of course Thorin ignored Bilbo as best he could.  He could not act as he wanted here and now and he did not trust himself.

When Thorin retired for the night, however, he found that Bilbo had laid his bedroll next to Thorin’s own.  Bilbo lay awake, quietly and steadily watching Thorin.  After a long moment, Thorin readied himself for sleep.  He wanted to turn his back to Bilbo, but he found he could not.  Instead he lay as still as the Hobbit, watching and being watched until sleep took him.

The second night was no different, nor the third.  As the days passed, no matter how brusque Thorin was in the day, at night the Hobbit laid his bedroll next to Thorin’s, and they fell asleep together.

One night, when their bedding lay towards the edge and a bit away from the others and the Dwarf on watch faced the other direction, Thorin reached out and took one of Bilbo’s hands in his own. 

Bilbo smiled and closed his eyes to sleep.  Thorin watched his face a while longer.

The next night, Thorin crept as close as he dared and whispered in a low voice all that he would do to Bilbo should they have privacy and time enough while Bilbo shuddered and clung to Thorin’s hands.

This became the pattern for their nights.  They had no space or time alone but these stolen moments.  As hard as he grew (and he grew hard, these nights), he would not touch himself; but instead he spoke to Bilbo of all the ways he wanted to—to touch himself and to touch the Hobbit.  Of the ways he wished Bilbo to touch him.  He thought Bilbo refrained from self-pleasuring as well, though every night he seemed driven to the brink.  He clutched Thorin’s hardened hands tight enough to bruise.  Thorin reveled in it.  One night, when he had been especially inventive and his voice had rumbled especially low, he thought the Hobbit might have found completion from his words and his voice alone.  It was all he could do not to roll Bilbo over and discover for himself.

Thorin did not know how long they could continue in this way.  He did not know how the company remained ignorant of what passed between him and the Hobbit.  But not even Balin, who knew him so well, seemed to suspect anything but what their relationship seemed in daylight.

After the Trolls and the Orc pack’s chase, Thorin seethed.  It did not help his fury that Bilbo had rescued them from the Trolls with his ridiculous tales of proper seasoning and worms in tubes, stalling until Gandalf came with the dawn.  It did not even help to find such a lovely blade as Orcrist in the Troll hoard.  It was made worse that they should be rescued from the Orcs by Elves, and manipulated by Gandalf to be put into such a position as to seek shelter in the Last Homely House.  It did not lessen his frustration that their anticipated dinner seemed to be twigs and grass.  Rather, his mood grew worse as he realized that they were expected to sleep here amongst the Elves, and that he would be subjected to the arguments of those who thought they had a right to stop his plans.  Most of all it did not help to be separated from Bilbo when his needs, so long held in abeyance, clamored to be sated in Bilbo’s willing body.  He rumbled and scowled so far beyond his usual manner that even Dwalin looked askance.  He noted when Bilbo slipped away, and his mood grew worse; though it did not improve upon his return.  Thorin was near violence by then.

Bilbo, however, took no notice, but took his hand and led him from the room into the twilight.  Thorin was perhaps affronted.  Did Bilbo not hold him in deference?  Was he not at least cautious of Thorin in this mood?  In this manner Thorin fumed to himself as Bilbo led him away, though he kept silent.  His dignity would not let him spew forth such dross, and as they left Rivendell further behind, he did calm a bit.  He no longer thought he might split the nearest Elven flute into kindling, nor test whether the Elves were truly as skilled in battle as their reputation claimed.  Still he remained silent.  He would see what the Hobbit intended.

Bilbo followed a stream for a time, and though they remained in the Elves’ territory, the Last Homely House could no longer be seen.  Thorin was gladdened that Bilbo had read his needs better than Thorin knew, that he realized how much the Elven city had perturbed him.  It was not until Bilbo stopped beneath a rather sickly looking willow tree and turned to look to him with a raised eyebrow that Thorin understood Bilbo’s true purpose in seeking such isolation.

He stepped closer, deliberately looming over the slight Hobbit.

“Do you expect that I would choose to give anything to the Elves, Mr. Baggins?  Even if it is only to spill my seed to feed their gardens?”

Bilbo smiled. Oh, that wicked smile, his beautiful Hobbit.  “I expect only that you should keep the promises that you have made me on the road, Thorin Oakenshield.  And look, see the browning leaves?  Though it lies in Elven lands, does not this willow need our help?”

Thorin made a show of looking at the willow tree.  He could not hear the rushing stream over the beat of his own blood.  Finally he looked at Bilbo.  “I will keep every promise I have made to you,” he said.  He lowered his voice.  “My Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s eyes closed.  He shuddered.  His hands moved to his buttons.

Thorin shrugged out of his coat and laid it out beneath the willow.  Shedding the rest of his clothing, he lay upon his coat and watched Bilbo.  Bilbo looked back, his eyes dark.  He seemed unconcerned with his nudity.  Thorin reached up and drew Bilbo down upon him.

“My Bilbo,” he said again.  Bilbo did not reply, but reached toward his piled clothing and drew something forth.  As he brought it closer, Thorin could see that it was a small stoppered bottle.  Bilbo opened the bottle and poured out some oil onto Thorin’s cock, then more oil into his own hand.  Realization came, and Thorin panted.  When Bilbo reached behind himself, he moaned.  “Bilbo...”  Ah, what you give me, what you take from me, my sweet thief, he thought.

Some time later, up in Rivendell, Gandalf noticed that a vine which had been previously newly covered in spring flowers leaf out and set fruit before his eyes.  His eyebrows rose.  ‘This explains much about the Shire,’ he thought.

The company continued oblivious upon their return, and Thorin found Gandalf.  He would show his map to Lord Elrond and see what could be learnt.  If his mood seemed more genial than before, Gandalf said nothing.

If the Elves noticed a sudden lush health to the gardens surrounding Rivendell after that night, they said not a word.

And if Thorin thought that he might think of at least one small place in Rivendell with fondness, he did not say anything, nor did he comment to see that Bilbo looked back on the Elven city with some wistfulness as they left.


	3. A Flowering Meadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo steal a moment away from the others while within the High Hedges of Beorn's Hall. Enough sap to make maple syrup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where the book spoilers begin, though they are not bad enough to ruin the book for you: a setting and a few words here and there.

Chapter Three:  A Flowering Meadow

When Thorin arrived at Beorn’s Hall, his injuries were serious but not severe; enough that Gandalf declared a few days to stay and heal would be best.  The entire company was glad of the rest, and Thorin was among them.  He did not like to admit to weakness but he would, this once, admit at least to himself that when he had felt the White Warg’s jaws close about him, he had felt his death.  His physical wounds would heal and he would regain some steadiness of mind for a few days of peacefulness.

 He still could not believe the bravery of his burglar.  He had feared more for Bilbo than for himself that night, and Bilbo had proved he was clever, capable, courageous...  His soft Hobbit, his generous gardener:  he was also as cunning as Nori and brave as Dwalin.  No Dwarf could be better.  He did not attempt to contain his smiles.  Once he saw Fili and Kili stare at him in wonder, as if he had suddenly turned court jester.  But he could not but smile when he thought on Bilbo.  Even Beorn’s laying hands on his burglar did not discomfort him, though perhaps that was because it so clearly annoyed Bilbo, and because Beorn could not know his Hobbit.  Bilbo was not a ‘little bunny’ anymore than he was a grocer.

On the second day, Thorin stepped off the veranda of Beorn’s hall into the afternoon sunlight.  He had lost his thief; perhaps he had dozed after lunch and Bilbo had wandered away, but now he wanted him.  Always, they had had too little time alone.  He was not visible from the hall, but Thorin eventually found him in the flowering meadow, the gently buzzing bees around him.

“Bilbo,” he called.  Bilbo turned.  His smile, oh, his smile.

“Thorin,” he said.  “I am glad to see you walking about again.  Is not the meadow lovely?” 

Thorin picked his way around the flowers to where Bilbo stood.  He looked his fill. 

“Lovely,” he said.  Bilbo blushed.  Thorin was charmed.  His Bilbo could be so wanton, without shame, yet a single word reddened his cheeks.  He said it again.  “My lovely Bilbo.”

Shyly, Bilbo took his hand.  “I have always thought you too beautiful, almost.  I know what I am.”

_Too beautiful, almost_ thrummed gloriously in Thorin’s mind.  That is how he sees me, he thought.  So much of who he was had always been his position, before Erebor fell to Smaug as well as after.  He did not think anyone had ever called him beautiful.  Had anyone thought it, no one had ever been close enough to say it.  It had been and would ever be only this Hobbit.  He took Bilbo’s other hand, so that they stood facing each other amongst the flowers in that sun-kissed place as did those who would plight their troth.

“And what is that, my thief?” he asked.  Bilbo looked down, and he would have pulled his hands away, but Thorin would not let him.

“I am learning that I am more than what I thought I was,” he finally said.  He breathed deep and lifted his eyes to Thorin’s.  “But I know too that a grocer is not a king under the mountain.”  He looked away again, though this time he did not pull away.

Thorin flinched.  He had been so cruel to his Bilbo, sometimes.  “How I regret those words, knowing that they hurt you.  There was less truth to them than bitterness that my relatives in the Iron Hills would not join us on this quest.”  He waited until Bilbo looked at him again.  He held his gaze steadily as he went down on one knee.  “My honor that that very night under your peach trees, I took back those words.  I thought you could not be less like a grocer.  And though I am king of nothing yet, I hold my honor to the depths of Erebor.”

Bilbo sucked in a breath.  His eyes shone and his lip trembled.  Thorin continued.

“The next day on the road I did not allow myself to think how handsome you were, and yet I thought it anyway.  As we left Rivendell, your face was more to me than the famed Homely House.”  Thorin reached up to touch that cheek.  A tear slipped down Bilbo’s face. “I did not know a Hobbit would be such a lovely thing.”

And they stayed thus for a while, until the shadows began to lean across the meadow and the bees to seek their hives.  Bilbo seemed thin at the seams, but he grew steadier as they drew closer to the skinchanger’s hall.  Only at the very entrance to the hall did they unwillingly part. 


	4. In the Wood Elves' Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has some unwanted alone time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More serious book spoilers here.

Orcs, Wargs, Storm Giants, Goblins:  in retrospect, the dangers of the road had not seemed as desperate to him as the certainty that they would starve in the Mirkwood.  Nothing else could have persuaded him to approach the hated Wood Elves to beg for food, only the tightening belts of his comrades and Bilbo’s pinched face.  So the first night Thorin found himself in Thranduil’s clutches, as much as he resented his captivity, he was grateful for the plain food and water the Elves gave him.  He worried, however, for rest of the company.  They had not been taken, so they were still lost in the Mirkwood.  In some ways his situation was better.  He was captive, but he was fed and he was safe.

As time went on, however, his gratitude waned.  Perhaps it was complacent, but he had become used to being fed.  He was weary of his dark cell and his own morose company.  The Elves who delivered his meals did not speak to him.  On occasion Thranduil sent guards to ask if he would tell now his purpose in the Mirkwood, but he would not and so they went away again.

And he worried, more and more, for the company and for himself, that he might never see them again.  A Dwarf felt comfortable deep under the rocky mountain; but this was no well-crafted Dwarven cave, it was a Mahal-forsaken Elven hole, and even Dwarves want to see the sunlight sometimes.  He missed Balin’s wise advice and Dwalin’s strong arm and Fili and Kili’s antics.  He wanted to see his Bilbo’s smile again.

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed but to count his meals.  If the Wood Elves fed him twice daily, he had been in the dungeon perhaps two weeks when he decided that he would wait no more.  The next time the woodland king sent to see if he would talk, he would go.  Perhaps he could negotiate for his freedom and help in searching for his company, should they still live, these weeks later, trapped in the dark Mirkwood.  He prayed they had found the path, found some way to survive in that terrible forest.  Thranduil was a treacherous oath-breaker, but if he had wanted to torment Thorin, he could have before now.  Thorin was entirely in his power.  And if he did not let Thorin go free, then he would have no share in the mountain’s gold.  If Thranduil had not faced Smaug before now, he had not the courage to face him alone.  There was no danger in admitting his quest.  The Elf King had likely guessed already.

But several more days passed before Thranduil thought to send for him again; and by then he had taken heart again, for his burglar had found him. 

“Thorin,” he heard in Bilbo’s voice, and again, “Thorin.”  His heart leapt, though at first he thought he must have had a waking dream; for he had thought often of Bilbo in those long, dark days.  However, in none of his dreams had Bilbo’s voice contained the exasperation with which he said, “Thorin!  Thorin!” again; so Thorin knew that it was Bilbo after all.

Thorin threw himself at the door.

“Bilbo!  How can this be?” he whispered, and hungrily heard all that Bilbo had to say.  The company was safe, but also captured, excepting Bilbo himself.  Bilbo had only just learned of his presence within the furthest corners of the dungeons.  Bilbo was fine, only a bit overwrought from constant hiding and worry.

“And it is not exactly what a Hobbit prefers, you know, eating only when and what he can snatch from others’ leftovers,” Bilbo said airily.  Thorin thought that perhaps his thief had not been able to snatch quite enough to completely fend off his hunger, though after the Mirkwood, perhaps not quite enough had seemed a feast.

“But most of all, Thorin,” he said, “I am so happy to hear you and know that you are well.  I have grieved that I did not know your fate, my King under the Mountain.  And now I know we will find a way out of this.”

Thorin pressed his hand to the door of his chamber.  He tried to speak but at first he could not.  Finally, his voice came back to him.

“My Bilbo,” he said.  “You are precious beyond all price to me.”

The darkness of his cell became nothing to him when he knew that for some time everyday, Bilbo would come to sit with him, to pass the messages of the company and to tell of their adventures since they had been parted.  Thorin laughed to hear of Bilbo taunting the spiders and grew cold when he thought how close it had been for all of them.  It was especially bad when Bilbo had been gone to visit the others for a while, and Thorin thought of how he would have bargained for an Elven escort, and found the company, dry husks and belt buckles, an Elven letter opener and a golden ring.  If he cried to think on it, he never told Bilbo on his return.  It had not happened that way.

He could not touch Bilbo; so he must imagine his face, tired and worn from his travails, but handsome all the same.  He was so proud of his brave and clever Hobbit.  They spoke of ways to escape, and stories from their youth.  Bilbo told Thorin of growing up running wild in the green Shire with all kinds of cousins that Thorin could not keep track of.  Bilbo rambled on and on about his cousins and how they were related to each other, and though Thorin would have been bored should it have been anyone else, he listened with joy to Bilbo’s pride and love of his family.  He told of birthday parties and of Gandalf’s fireworks, of hiding behind his mother’s skirts when they visited the Old Took.  He carefully did not speak of Hamfast Gamgee.  He spoke of his parents’ deaths, and of growing up and becoming respectable and staid alone in Bag End.  He told Thorin of how his life had changed the night Gandalf sent thirteen Dwarves to his door, and tried to sing, a little, the song the Dwarves had sung as they cleaned his kitchen after a dinner that had emptied his larder and shocked his hobbitish sensibilities.  Thorin thought he might have Fili and Kili sing him the song properly when they had left behind these dungeons.

Thorin told Bilbo of growing up a proud Dwarven prince of the Durin line, son of Thrain, son of Thror.  He spoke of his brother Frerin and his sister Dis, Fili and Kili’s mother. He spoke of the day Smaug came, of fear and anger and overwhelming loss.  He spoke of the doomed battle at Moria, his father’s death, his hatred of Azog.  He spoke of the loneliness of his exile, of leaving his friends or seeing them leave him to seek some place where a Dwarf or two might be welcome, of not knowing his sister sons as well as he should because of the distance between them as they had grown and he had worked as a travelling smith.  He spoke to Bilbo of things he had never said to anyone; and Bilbo, listening quietly, gave him peace.

They sat in silence sometimes, only broken when Thorin would ask, “Bilbo?” to confirm that he was still there.  Thorin thought that for all they had said and done before, he had never come to know the Hobbit so well as he had there in the darkness of Thranduil’s dungeon.  He was almost grateful to the King of the Wood Elves.

Almost.

And when Bilbo came to him with keys in hand and all the company at his back, Thorin embraced him in front of them all.  He would hide this no longer.


	5. Under the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Into each life, some rain must fall." For Thorin and Bilbo, it comes all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this, only an epilogue remains.

Had he not believed that Bilbo would be wounded, thinking it a lack of belief in his abilities, Thorin would never have let him face the Dragon.  Without his confidence in Bilbo’s cleverness and stealth, he could not have done it.  Could any Dwarf have gone in his stead, Thorin would have sent him.  Could he have been a different Dwarf, he would have left the Lonely Mountain to Smaug and the treasure hoard to whoever might best him; but he was not and he could not.  They had come this far together, and he would face the Dragon.  And Bilbo pushed ahead as well, in their search for a way into the mountain.  He wanted this revenge upon the Dragon for Thorin as much as Thorin wanted it.

And when Smaug flew away and the Dwarrows could enter deeper into the mountain, he walked in the darkness with Bilbo at his side.  His heart stirred to view the endless golden expanse.  He felt a deep satisfaction; he had Bilbo and he had Erebor again.  Soon the world would know it.  But before that moment came, he needed his burglar.  He had not yet seen the Arkenstone, but the gold had given him ideas.  He would take Bilbo and he would find a private place while the rest of the company explored the hoard.

Each time Thorin had had Bilbo, he had thought he could not want him more; but something dark and greedy stirred in him to see Bilbo spread wantonly upon the Dragon’s treasure.  A Dwarven hoard again, he thought with some satisfaction.  He drew Bilbo near completion, then fell back to search within the piled gold until he found what he sought:  a circle of emeralds to clasp around Bilbo’s wrist.  Again, and again, and again he did it; bringing Bilbo towards his pleasure and then stopping to plunder the hoard, until Bilbo wore gems on both wrists and around his neck and on his brow and his hands and a particularly noteworthy ring around his cock.  Bilbo whimpered and swore and writhed and reached for him, but Thorin’s pleasure lay in this and he would not be moved.  At last, when Bilbo seemed to almost despair in his pleasure, Thorin removed the ring and moved within Bilbo until the end came for both of them.  Exhausted and worn thin, Bilbo fell asleep almost immediately afterward.  Thorin held him close; and if his eyes strayed to the gold rather than watch his sleeping burglar, well.  No one could begrudge him the satisfaction of this moment.

In the next days, Thorin grew busy with Men and Elves at the door to the mountain and his search for the Arkenstone.  He felt torn in all ways; he must answer the siege until Dain could come; he must find the Heart of the Mountain again. 

When Bilbo questioned him about it, Thorin explained.  “The Arkenstone of my father,” he said, “is worth more than a river of gold in itself, and to me it is beyond price.”  Perhaps his Bilbo was quiet for some time after that, but Thorin spent the next days seeking the Arkenstone within the hoard and did not notice.

But he must have lost his Bilbo then, though he did not know it until he saw the Arkenstone in Bard’s grasp.  He knew not what he did next until Gandalf brought him back to himself, to Bilbo clenched in his grasp above the long fall from the approach to the throne and a blossoming bruise on his cheekbone.  He threw the Hobbit to the wizard’s feet and turned to Bard to negotiate for the Heart of the Mountain.  He only half heard Bilbo’s words to Gandalf.  “The Heart of the Mountain is the heart of Thorin,” he said.

He would think no more on the Hobbit.  What he had thought, they had not been.

If he soon regretted his words and his actions, there was no one anymore that he could tell; and then the battle for the mountain was upon them.  If he thought of the Hobbit then, it was only to be glad he was gone.  This battlefield was no place for a Hobbit.

In the healing tents after the battle, he heard with sorrow the fates of Fili and Kili.  He took stock of the hushed voices and worried looks of his own healers.  He evaluated what he knew of his wounds.  He would not live long, he realized.  So he sent for the Hobbit; for if he would die, he would die with his Bilbo there.  If Bilbo could be found.

When next he opened his eyes, Bilbo sat by his bedside, his hands plucking at the sheets, his eyes downcast.

“My Bilbo,” he murmured.  Bilbo’s head shot up.

“Thorin,” he replied.  His voice was thick.

“My Bilbo, my thief.”  Thorin’s voice was also hoarse.  “I would tell you before I leave this world:  I wish to part in friendship from you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate,” Thorin said.  He reached out, and Bilbo took his hand.  Thorin squeezed it.  “I would tell you:  I would have come to the Shire every summer of my life to eat peaches with you.  I would have kept you by my side here in the mountain as long as you would have stayed with me.”  His eyes closed against his will for a moment, but he struggled against the coming time.  “I do not know whether I began to love you when you cried out that we must stop for your handkerchief or when you said I had parasites or when you drew me away in Rivendell, but I have loved you long and deep, my Bilbo.  I would have you know it.”

Tears rolled down Bilbo’s cheeks as he shook his head.

“Oh, Thorin,” he said.  Faintly Thorin felt Bilbo squeeze his hand.  “For me it has been since the peach orchard.  Since the first night, Thorin.”  Through fading light, Thorin saw Bilbo look imploringly to Gandalf.  “Is there nothing—”

If he said more, Thorin did not hear it. 


	6. Epilogue

Bilbo would not stay in Erebor or in Dale. The new King under the Mountain, Dáin, did not care; and the old company pleaded with him, but Bilbo would not be moved. He would go back to the Shire, and he would take very little gold indeed. He did take his mithril armor, and asked for a particular emerald bracelet, but it could not be found; and in the end he said it did not matter. And so Thorin’s thief left the mountain.

The tale of his return to the Shire has spread far and wide and there is no need to revisit that old gossip here. Come back he did, and settle in to Bag End, and he came to be known as that queer old Baggins. If he spent a bit more time in his garden, no one noticed, for Hobbits are well known for their love of their gardens. It was the least strange thing about him.

Often he spent that time dreaming under the peach trees, but none knew or cared.

He visited with Dwarrows and Elves both, though he would not return to the Lonely Mountain. He said the journey was too dangerous, and then it was too long, and then there was Frodo to think of. Nevertheless, Dwarves would come to him, and then there would be feasting and singing into the nights. He did go to Rivendell and take long walks in the valley there. Lord Elrond welcomed him.

Years later, Frodo would think it funny that Uncle seemed sad when the peaches ripened, for they both agreed it was the best part of summer in the Shire. And though his original peach orchard grew old and he planted a new one where the tomatoes used to grow, he would never tear down those old trees, no matter how gnarled they grew or how few peaches they bore. He smiled, in that somehow sad way, and said that those ones had always been the sweetest to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [artwork](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/90356686306/i-commissioned-this-beautiful-art-from-aegileif-to)


End file.
